


Picking Apart Lampshades

by hutchynstarsk



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Gen, Recovery, drugged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-09
Updated: 2012-04-09
Packaged: 2017-11-03 07:41:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doyle was drugged.  Bodie is there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picking Apart Lampshades

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by anna060957 who mentioned that it might not be totally in character.

Warning: contains Mush!!!! :)

~2800

Rated: PG

 

Beta'd by anna060957 who mentioned that it might not be totally in character. 

All errors are completely my own. :)

 

 

Picking Apart Lamp Shades

by Allie

 

“Doyle, you little arse, why didn’t you—” 

Bodie cut off speaking abruptly as the ‘little arse’ stumbled dizzily. Bodie caught him, holding him up under the arms, hauling him forward. “Didn’t escape when you should’ve, had to keep trying for the evidence. And now they’ve drugged you.” He heard the outrage in his own voice, along with the fear, though it was doubtful whether Doyle was aware of any of it.

Bodie released him for an instant, and he started to collapse gently, going wobbly. It was terrifying to see him so out of it. Bodie caught Doyle quickly and picked him up this time. Doyle put an arm round his neck automatically to keep from falling, but he didn’t look at Bodie. His eyes were blank and seeing something far away, or nothing at all.

Bodie bit his lip to keep from shouting or letting his voice break, and hurried from the building, fast as he could carrying Doyle. By the time the ambulance arrived, he was waiting impatiently, standing there and holding his precious and stubborn burden. Doyle wasn’t even up for arguing. And he was dreadfully, dreadfully silent.

#

Time spent in hospital: hours. Relief of knowing Doyle was going to be all right mixed with the annoyance at the slowness of hospitals, the general useless feeling, the fact that Cowley wanted him to go and write a report. (Well how could he write a report when Doyle was still ill? They needed his side of it, didn’t they?)

But all of it was balanced out, nearly, by the fact that Doyle was starting to seem a bit more human.

He wouldn’t stay in bed. He wouldn’t keep his sheet over his legs when he was in bed. He kept trying to wander round the room, as if looking for something, picking up items and looking at them, then setting them down again, often in mid-air so they dropped to the floor. The fact that he felt up to doing any of these things quite paid for all the irritation, and Bodie, it must be admitted, followed him a bit like a mother hen.

The first words Doyle said were politely asking for a glass of water, in a very vague way. Bodie fetched it for him. Doyle tasted it, spat some of the water out, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand reproachfully. “No, WATER,” he said.

Bodie gave him a look, and then went to get a fresh glass, this time with ice, hoping that would make the difference. 

By the time he’d gone through three glasses of water without getting it right, tried a lemonade and a soda, he was getting rather annoyed with Doyle. Cowley also arrived, along with a doctor. They seemed to be in cahoots, though Bodie spared them barely a glance, keeping his eyes on the fretfully pacing, frowning Doyle. Something was definitely bothering him, though whether that something had any logical reason or sense behind it, Bodie couldn’t tell.

He’d almost rather have come into that warehouse seeing a Doyle badly beaten and bleeding than—this. Bodie knew how to deal with broken bones, could understand bruises and concussions—but drugs—he hated them. They were nothing to mess with, and it had taken a few years off his life to find Doyle so unresponsive. That he would be okay, and make a full recovery, was no less miraculous than his recovery from behind shot by Mayli, in Bodie’s opinion.

“Right, come along, lads. We’re going back to CI5,” said Cowley.

“What?” Bodie turned to gape at him. “You’re joking! He needs a hospital.”  
The doctor looked at his clipboard, and shook his head. “He’s recovering nicely. What he needs is rest and plenty of fluids. Bring him back if he has any further symptoms, of course, but we’ve already done what we can for him, and he’ll most likely rest better elsewhere. The noise of the hospital is obviously disturbing him.”

“Is that what it is? I can’t tell what’s bothering him. But he’s really not well enough—” Bodie gestured to the pacing Doyle, who had stopped momentarily to try to pick apart a lamp shade.

“Doyle, come away from that,” said Cowley, in a commanding, scolding voice, rather like you’d use for a naughty yet indulged child that you were trying to make behave. He drew Doyle away from it by the arm, and Doyle, shockingly out of character, didn’t protest, but followed docilely.

“That’s not normal, for a start. He always argues and likes to do things his own way.”

“It’s not normal to take apart the room either,” said Cowley. “But if he’s well enough, then he’s going. Perhaps you two can write that report in the rest room.”

“Oh no, no,” said Bodie, shaking his head emphatically. “I’d be jumping up to look after him every minute and he’s no good for reports, you can see that. It’ll have to wait. Sir,” he added hastily. Cowley was looking at him rather dark-eyed and dangerous.

Cowley hesitated, and then nodded, glancing once more at Doyle. “Yes, I can see that. All right, you may take him to his home to rest.”

Bodie let out his breath. It was only once they were halfway down the hall, him steering Doyle, that he realised that had been the whole point. Cowley had tricked him, with the threat of doing a report while watching Doyle, into leaving the hospital without protest. Oh, tricky Cowley! Bodie had to shake his head. You couldn’t help admiring Cowley’s brain, even if his cleverness was aimed at you.

#

Somehow, he got the disoriented, distractible Doyle into his car and drove, keeping an eye on the drugged Doyle.

It still frightened him to see Doyle like this, though he wasn’t acting so very strange anymore. Now he was just staring out the windows with a look on his face that said he wasn’t there. It was almost completely blank of emotion, as if there was nothing going on inside the man. 

That was unusual for a start. Doyle always seemed to be thinking, and what he felt showed on his face with alarming regularity. It made him easy to read, but it also sometimes made Bodie cringe, a look of raw agony or unconcealed disgust making Bodie want to change the subject and joke away Doyle’s unhappiness or anger. Not that it always worked, but sometimes it did.

But this—how did you joke away this?

“We’re going home, mate. I’m taking you home, all right?” he said in the suddenly very loud silence in the car.

Doyle didn’t respond. His hands were sort of curled sideways, and he was picking distractedly at the seams of his jeans. He just…wasn’t here.

“Hungry?” tried Bodie again, a bit desperately. So strange, to be in the car here with Doyle, and yet not. “Thirsty?”

The silence grew oppressively loud, and he pressed down harder on the accelerator. 

#

He followed Doyle around for the next half hour, trying to get him to settle down and stop his restless movement. Finally, Doyle lay down on the couch (he wouldn’t go to bed), and dozed. 

Bodie breathed a sigh of relief and headed out to the kitchen to clean up the mess of too many cups filled freshly with water. He turned the kettle on. Maybe a cup of tea would help release the bunched tension in his muscles. He still couldn’t forget that first horror of finding Doyle this way, and he very much wished his partner was back to normal right now.

He finished two cups of tea and half the paper, and caught himself starting to doze. He caught himself a second time, as well—but not the third.

He woke several hours later, some faint sound alerting his senses to movement. He glanced down at the crumpled paper, the cold tea, then towards the other room.

Doyle, looking slightly more like himself now, though still far from normal, leaned tiredly in the doorway. “I can’t be your Golly,” he said very seriously. “If I was your soft toy, you’d cuddle me, and you never cuddle me.”

Bodie almost laughed aloud at the serious expression, mixed with a rather childish resentment on that uneven, familiar face. He got up and walked over, trying to keep back the laugh. “And you’d like that, would you?” He put his hands on his sides and regarded his slim, dangerous partner, who so often seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve. Right now he was looking piqued and defensive, and—sort of needy.

“I would not,” said Doyle, glowering and straightening, pulling back, prickly as an old hedgehog.

“’Course you wouldn’t, mate.” Bodie struggled not to laugh. Poor old Doyle didn’t realise what he was saying, and it really wasn’t fair to have a laugh at him when he was so obviously still out of it. 

With a disgusted look, Doyle took a wobbly step forward, to pass him. “Just… false advertising.” He wavered a bit, his steps still unsteady.

Bodie reached out and caught his arm, giving in to a soft impulse he barely wanted to acknowledge, an impulse to protect and comfort this man who was usually too closed-off to allow such a thing. “Maybe just once,” he suggested, giving Doyle’s arm a little tug.

The curly-headed agent moved into his arms without even a show of reluctance, and leaned his head on Bodie’s shoulder. Bodie felt like laughing again. This was not like Doyle, not in the least. But at the same time he felt amused, Bodie was awed by this trust, and would do anything not to break it. So instead of laughing, he closed his arms carefully around his scrawny-yet-muscular mate, and just held him. 

It felt a little awkward to Bodie, but he could feel how much the still-drugged Doyle needed reassurance. The tension in Doyle’s shoulders subtly relaxed. Bodie raised a hand and rubbed into the soft curls, smiling a little. “Does this mean I can keep calling you ‘Golly’?”

He was answered by a faint but unmistakable snore. 

This time, he put Doyle to bed properly and he took the couch for himself, to grab what sleep he could for what was left of the night.

#

He was cooking a fry-up in the kitchen when his partner padded out the next morning.

“Bodie.”

“Yeah, mate?” Bodie faced his bleary-looking partner, giving him a smile. Doyle still looked a bit unsteady on his feet, but his eyes seemed more aware this morning. That was such a relief to Bodie. The ‘missing’ Doyle had highly unnerved him.

“Everything all right?” said Doyle. He looked uncertain, as if he was asking for reassurance. “I don’t really remember...”

“You were drugged,” said Bodie. “Wasn’t your fault. Feeling okay this morning, mate?” He reached for the coffee and poured Doyle a mug full.

“Ta.” Doyle wrapped his hands around it and stared down into its dark depths as though searching for answers there. He took a sip without adding milk or sugar, and grimaced a little. “I just don’t—remember.” He looked up at Bodie, meeting his gaze for a moment, agonised. His brows tilted up in a question, asking Bodie for help.

Bodie determined there and then NEVER to tease him about wanting a hug last night. It would stay Bodie’s secret. He turned back to the sizzling cooker and adjusted the heat, trying to hide his fond smile. 

“Well, there’s a lamp at the hospital that may never be the same, and you scared me a bit, but you were fine, really.”

He turned back to his partner. “Cowley will probably have a lot of paperwork for us today, but you got off lucky, mate. You really did. The doctors said there’s no permanent damage. But next time wait for backup, eh?”

Doyle nodded. He still looked confused and a bit lost. “I wonder if I’ll remember eventually...”

I doubt it, sunshine. And for your sake, I hope not. You’d turn beetroot red.

“Well don’t worry about it, mate. Pull up a seat and grab a plate. I’ll have you know, I’m a brilliant cook.”

Doyle snorted. “This I’ll have to taste to believe.” But he got a plate and sat, already looking less distracted and more like himself.

And that was really all Bodie ever wanted.

He reached out and ruffled his partner’s messy curls. “Eat lots, Golly. Need to build your strength up.”

At the sound of these words, Doyle froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. He looked up, his green eyes widening to shock. His fork clattered back to his plate. “Golly!” he croaked.

“Aw, mate,” said Bodie with quick compassion. “Don’t take it like that.”

Doyle scraped his chair back and headed from the kitchen, walking fast, his face burning. “Leave off, Bodie. Guess you had a laugh.” His voice was hard, embarrassed.

“Wasn’t so funny, you being drugged. Oh, stop it, Doyle. You couldn’t help what you said or thought in that state, and there’s nothing so very strange about wanting a hug. You must admit, I’m the cuddliest CI5 agent you’ll ever meet. I’m just glad you stopped pulling apart lamp shades.”

“Be the butt of jokes for weeks...” Doyle was still growling, pacing the room, shooting Bodie angry, indignant looks—as if any of this was his fault.

“Now listen, sunshine,” growled Bodie, planting himself in front of Doyle to stop him pacing. “If you’d waited properly for backup, none of this would’ve happened. You’re lucky to be alive. I hardly think a little hug is something to get worked up about. And yeah, it would be a joke for weeks, if I wanted to do that to you, but I happen to think we’ve both suffered enough with this debacle, so if you’d just get over yourself...”

Doyle dodged right and paced around Bodie. “You just had to let me make a fool of myself...”

“Listen, mate,” said Bodie, and caught his arm and pulled, swinging him back. He wrapped his arms around the muscular, bony man and squeezed him close, frowning. “You get off your high horse and calm down, or I’ll hug you any damn time I want.”

“Gerroff.” Doyle elbowed him, and tried to wrestle his way free.

Bodie let him go, but only after a moment of holding him tightly to make his point.

Doyle glared at him, mussed and flustered. “You’re an arse, Bodie!”

“NOW what did I do?” demanded the arse, following his partner into the bedroom and catching the door before it could slam in his face.

“Going to—now you’re going to always think that’s what I want, a bleeding cuddle.” He sounded disgusted and distressed, angry and ashamed.

“Do you, mate?” He reached out to his partner, only managed to touch the end of some curls, because Doyle had moved away already, pacing restlessly.

Doyle didn’t answer. 

He was always such a prickly sod, you’d never guess he might want comforting sometimes. Bodie felt something warm in his centre, something welling up proud and happy. Doyle did like him. For all his pushing Bodie away, he still needed him sometimes.

And he looked so miserable now that his cover had been blown.

There was only one thing to do. Bodie had to cover up for him. “Suppose you want that as much as you’d like to pick apart every lampshade you see,” said Bodie in a level voice.

Doyle cast him a quick, suspicious look, and Bodie met it unblinking. Levelly. Seriously. Then he allowed himself a wide, wicked grin. “Come and give us a cuddle, then.” He took on a campish stance and stretched out his arms.

Doyle growled and dodged away Bodie chased him to the kitchen, teasingly, and by the time they reached the table, Doyle was grinning a little as well.

“Now the food’s cold, I’ll bet,” he grouched, sitting with a plop on the chair, and picking up his fork again.

“You’ll eat it anyway. I didn’t slave over a hot stove so you could turn your nose up at it.”

Doyle snorted. He took a bite of fried bread and wrinkled his nose. “It’s my stove. And it’s not that hot.”

“Oi! Who was the one up at crack of dawn cooking for you, then?”

Doyle rolled his eyes. 

Bodie fetched himself a plate, and sat down opposite his partner and began to eat. 

These, he thought suddenly, like a burst of understanding, are the days that make up our lives. He couldn’t remember if it was something cribbed from a poem or not, but for a moment it felt breathtakingly profound. 

These moments—eating, teasing, arguing together—the little innumerable things not worth bothering about or recording, they were the ones that mattered most in the end, the most precious things.

And most of all, that Doyle had survived to bicker and complain and be embarrassed with.


End file.
